


some other beginning's end

by thimble



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-12
Updated: 2012-11-12
Packaged: 2017-11-18 13:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/561512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>007 catches first light when he leaves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	some other beginning's end

_you don't have to go, but you can't stay here_

They're both too pragmatic to stay in the headquarters. There's no hidden corners like an ordinary office building, no broom closet that doesn't have surveillance cameras trained on it at all times. There aren't set hours, so it's never empty. There's always someone monitoring a mission in Bucharest, Maputo, Seoul; someone perpetually stuck three or five or twelve hours behind or ahead. MI6 bleeds with sleepless workers who still have work on their minds even when they've spilled out on the streets. 

For 007 and Q, that meant prying eyes, a probable audience.

"To the Lancaster, please," Q tells the cabbie. He's wearing the oversized parka 007 hates, but it keeps him warm even if all he does is look out the window. He's at the Lancaster in less than half an hour.

He saunters to the front desk as if he belongs there, and he gives them a name. It's not his, not really, but it gets him one of the bigger suites. He declines and requests something on the lower floors. They give him a keycard and a bellhop follows him to the lift. 

He takes the stairs.

When he goes inside the room he doesn't open up the complimentary wine, but he does unwrap one of the chocolates on the pillow, popping it into his mouth. He lets it melt, slowly, and considers turning on the telly until he hears the door open.

"I gave you at least ten more," he says as he chews. 007 crosses the distance between them in two, three sides, then whips him around. 

He wants to ask 007 to shave first, but he supposes that will ruin the mood.

"How old was your cabbie?" 007 asks, mouth still on his.

"Mid-thirties, maybe?" 

"That's why."

Q doesn't respond, because 007 has pushed the parka off and unbuttoned his shirt, and seems very determined to leave stubble burns all over his chest. They barely make it to the bed; Q could only rest one knee on it, trousers restricting his movements, before 007's slick fingers are in him. He spends only five minutes on that, but, to 007's credit, the rest of it lasts much longer. Q eats another of the chocolates as he marinates in the afterglow.

007 redresses first, quick and efficient. The sun hasn't even risen and he's fixing up the cufflinks. 

"The Lancaster?" He glances at Q, and Q stares back through the glasses he was, thankfully, able to locate again. He swallows before replying, licking the remnants off his fingers. 

"I know all the exits."

"What a coincidence," he says, and he has that look again, part amused and part bewildered, like he's not sure why he hasn't been able to figure out Q yet. "So do I."

007 leaves, and Q lets a moment or two pass before he sighs to gather his clothes too. He's still thinking about the telly. Maybe he could stretch out on the king-sized he has all to himself, check out the Thai restaurant he saw downstairs, and leave at noon, _if_ England hasn't already fallen by then.

 

 

 

 

It takes them five meetings to realize that hotels aren't entirely wise. They've left a paper trail, one under several fake names that Q takes all of five minutes to erase, but a paper trail nonetheless. 

"Not mine," 007 says, so resolute that it tires Q out to even think of arguing the point. Which is how 007 ends up in his flat, idly peering at his bookshelves.

"You'll be fine, if you avoid War and Peace."

007 doesn't jump back or even freeze, but he does narrow his eyes. Q looks up from his laptop this time, giving 007 his most infuriating grin.

"Do you really want to know?"

007 grunts, walking to the sofa. He doesn't sit down. "How much longer?"

"Once I've sent this to Tanner..." 

"Bloody Tanner."

Q stops typing, letting out a clearly impatient sigh. "007."

"I'll behave." 007 paces, because there's not much else to see apart from the books. Q feels slightly sympathetic; now that they aren't talking about an assignment or removing each other's clothes, there's very little to chat about or do. 007 settles for looking out the window as Q busies himself with the email. 

After he finally hits send, he plays a few rounds of Minesweeper and waits for 007 to notice. He's not very happy when he does.

"You'd be smart not to test my patience," he says, and there goes Q's favourite woolen vest. 007 has him naked right on the couch, in front of the cat figurine Eve got him last Christmas, just like the one M had. He used to have it in his office but took it home after someone blew up the headquarters. He can't risk that.

007 takes a hold of him, and he's not thinking about the cat anymore. 007's free hand hauls him up, comes to rest at his nape and tug at his hair. Q reels in a gasp. 

"Suppose I don't need to tell you where the bedroom is."

"No."

This time Q's looking up at the ceiling, at least until 007 blocks it and his eyes seem to fill the room. It's not any less rough, but they're not quite rushing anymore. Q misses the chocolates though. 

007 catches first light when he leaves. Q yawns, not even getting up when he reaches to set his alarm. He has only thirty minutes for sleep before he has to wake for work again.

He wonders how much sleep 007 will be getting, but that isn't really any of his business.

 

 

 

 

007 fucks him in his own bathroom after the third time in his flat and, not that he's complaining, it's all sorts of ridiculous because he can't even use the toilet around the man nowadays without getting properly debauched. 

"This is hardly sanitary," he says as 007 positions himself, and slams him up the tiled wall in reply. His back arches instantly, recoiling from the cold, and it makes 007 inhale and thrust up harder. 

It was inevitable that 007 would move a little too erratically and lean on the shower knob the wrong way, but he does feel 007's arms _waver_ and almost drop him when a stream hits and drenches them both.

He's about to quip something about 007 not being a robot after all when he's robbed of the chance, as 007 lifts him higher and finds his angle, not bothering to turn off the water.

At least they weren't wearing their clothes.

And cleaning up was made a whole lot easier.

He offers 007 a towel afterwards, and he accepts, which makes the whole affair all the more surreal. 

"That was new," 007 says, and it makes Q laugh. 

"If you'd just left me in peace..." 

007 hums, oddly good-humored, and wrestles him to the bed for something a little more old-fashioned. They smell clean, for once, not like day-old sweat or stale tea, too many hours spent under the sun or in a lab. 007's skin is all heat against his, makes him shiver a little and elicit the _right_ kind of goosebumps. It's quite nice.

Q only realizes he's fallen asleep when he opens his eyes and Bond is picking his clothes off the floor, pulling them on without the casual grace he usually has. There are patches of sun all over the bed. Q blinks.

"It's morning?" It's a terribly daft question, especially for him, but he's not the only one breaking character. 

"I can see no other explanation," Bond says, a little testy but it's understandable. 

Q doesn't find himself speechless very often. He lets a moment pass before speaking so he doesn't make those noises people do at uncomfortable silences.

"Let me put the kettle on," he says, which only earns him a glare. He grabs his glasses from the bedside table and stands to-- what? Make Bond breakfast? Escort him out?

Bond answers for him by doing the latter by himself. Q lays back down, on top of the sheets. He can't quite decide if he should be miffed or relieved. 

 

 

 

 

This is round two, now. It's Bond sitting on the bed with Q between his legs, arms hooked under his thighs, and Q putting his mouth wherever he pleased. Apparently taking cock makes Bond pliant -- as pliant as being a double-oh would allow -- and Q is trying very valiantly _not_ to gloat. It's very noble of him, really.

Bond isn't vocal, another subtle manifestation of all his stealth training, so he lets his fingers do the talking. He pulls at Q's hair until his scalp stings, but it's a good sting, and he brushes the pads of his thumbs against Q's cheeks. The callouses make his touches harsher than they are. Q hardens again against the bedspread.

He swallows when Bond's done, licks up every drop. He wipes his mouth and wills his hard-on away, much too exhausted to pursue it. He crawls up to lie beside Bond, a good distance between them. 

Q closes his eyes and waits for the soft noise of Bond shuffling off the bed, searching the flat for his clothes like some perverted treasure hunt. He knows Bond is more than capable of reading his body, and every line of him promises nothing more for tonight. 

He counts up to sixty-sixth digit of pi before he smells smoke. Quick calculations in the millisecond before he opens his eyes: the fire alarm hasn't gone off, none of his things are burning, and it's coming from inches away.

"I disarmed it," Bond says, a cigarette between his teeth. He means the alarm, but there's something else Q wants to ask. 

He doesn't. Instead he says, "you'll set fire to the bed."

It's a paltry reprimand, but Bond lets up the chance to destroy it with something clever. He offers a stick to Q. 

Q doesn't do this often, not even in the meager social situations he finds himself in, but it's Bond who's offering. He wraps his lips around the filter and inhales when Bond flicks the lighter, gifting him with a minute flame. 

Bond's eyes darken, like the sky flirting with a storm, when Q blows out smoke. Maybe he expected a cough or two.

They sit in the grey-hued quiet, pillowed against the incoming dawn. Q notices, irritably, that Bond's been tapping out the ashes on the sheets.

"The nerve," he mutters, looking around for a substitute ashtray. The only candidate is the mug he keeps by the beside table. It isn't ideal, but at least it's not his favourite.

"Use this." 

Bond's mouth contorts in what could pass as a smirk, and he drops his spent cigarette into the remnants of Q's tea. 

Q isn't pleased, but Bond laughs well into the morning, and he wonders vaguely when he stopped referring to him as 007.

 

 

 

 

The rain caught them today, and they're soaked when they enter Q's flat, his trademark steady hands fumbling with the keys as Bond mouths at the streaks on his neck.

"Patience," Q says, his glasses slipping down his nose to make everything even foggier. The keys have the _gall_ to fall to the floor. "Bugger that."

"Shall I have you right in your hallway, Q?" Bond says in his ear, filthy and cliche, but still Q resists a shudder.

"If the neighbors don't have any qualms," he says as he takes the keys and _finally_ inserts them in the right slots. It really shouldn't be this difficult to enter a flat with such low-level security.

Bond pushes him inside with ease, props him against the wall with kisses, in varying degrees of bruising. If he had any picture frames they would have been knocked off by now, and he'd be sweeping broken glass instead of --  this.

Thank fuck he didn't.

They tug and pull at each other's clothes, which frankly gets them nowhere, so Q humors the stubborn git and lets Bond peel his off first: the pitiful cardigan, the skinny black tie, the white button-down that's plastered to his torso with rain. 

"Get yourself ready," Bond says suddenly; he doesn't need telling twice. He pushes his trousers down, the material gone sticky and heavy, leaves them in a breadcrumb trail on the floor with his socks and shoes. He's quick to toss back on his bed and open himself up. The thickness of his fingers is not nearly enough, but Bond is just as swift to undress and he's there too, already firm. 

He slides in, and the burn is as fantastic as it ever was. Their skin is equal parts hot and cold, maybe that's part of it, what makes Q moan, faint and whispery. Bond's above him, the last of the downpour drying on his collarbone; Q leans up to chase it with his lips.

Bond tastes like England's worst days combined -- smoke and blood and metal  -- but there's a peppering of asphalt too, and wet grass, and nights under foreign stars. It makes Q heady, makes him long for something to anchor them to. He breaks skin and Bond lets out his first non-word of the night.

They give each other room to breathe when they're done. The sheets are slightly damp but they're warmer, and so is the air in the room. Bond puts a palm on top of his arm for no discernible reason.

Q doesn't mind.

He wakes second, and it takes one glance to affirm that neither of them are surprised to find that Bond hasn't left. He hasn't even dressed yet. 

"I'd fancy some eggs. Scrambled," James says, and it's not strange at all. "Sausages, if you have them."

Q props on his glasses and drops a foot on the floor, feeling for his left slipper. "Cereal is my only specialty. I could put on a kettle, if you like."

James grimaces, the way he always does when tea is brought up. "Is your coffeemaker rigged?"

"You're perfectly aware that I don't own one."

"It was a shot in the dark."

Q's found his lost slipper moments ago, but he keeps his gaze down. He fights a smile.

 

 

 

 

_i know who i want to take me home_

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'Closing Time' by Semisonic.


End file.
